


and in the ash, there is calm

by piano_gavin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Arson, Character Study, F/F, Gen, Implied Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson, MAG 167 spoilers, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piano_gavin/pseuds/piano_gavin
Summary: Remorse wasn’t an efficient emotion, not in her line of work.-Gertrude, and reflection.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	and in the ash, there is calm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [entropyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entropyre/gifts).



> Mind the tags! This is a character study of Gertrude set during the events in 167's statement, so warnings for that apply here.
> 
> Happy birthday Jeannette! thanks for always being so supportive :D lmao I could have written something more uplifting but here we are

Remorse wasn’t an efficient emotion, not in her line of work.

Forty years on the job, and Gertrude had long since learned to file away that spark of guilt, that burn that wedged its way under her lungs when she was forced to confront what she’d done. Put it in a little box and shove it into the back of her mind in between stacks of files, where it gathered dust until the next time she did something utilitarian and awful and needed to stuff away a little bit more.

By now, she had accrued quite the collection.

The thing about files and boxes and shelves was that they were very flammable, and when Emma tossed a lit match into the throng the fire that ignited burned and burned, hot and bright and angry and destructive.

Gertrude had blood on her hands. Michael’s, she knew, and Jan and those she’d blown up in Istanbul and every other person she’d sacrificed on the way. They were all collateral. Unfortunate, certainly, but necessary, easy enough to write off and move on from. Fiona, Eric, and Sarah, though, were different, dead and gone not for the greater good but because Gertrude saw the signs of betrayal and chose to ignore them.

Blood was blood. The guilt and grief she had buried in herself flooded into her with such an intensity that she found herself gasping. She saw her victims’ anger and pain and fear, so much fear, and she was disgusted as she felt the Eye feeding on the knowledge. As she felt herself doing the same.

It was to save the world, she knew. She would do it again in a heartbeat, would sacrifice each and every one of them to keep the Fears contained. She didn’t regret it, but the irrational, overwhelming blaze of guilt that tore through her threatened to unsettle that resolve.

The fire in front of her burned just as bright, just as hot. The smoke pouring off the house was acrid and threatened to choke her with every shuddered breath she took. As she watched the flames tear through the walls, anger slowly rose to replace the other warring emotions. She wasn’t the one who started this.

No, Emma had lit the fire in her, and now, Emma burned too.

Sudden shifting drew her out of her own mind and into the present. The unfamiliar-familiar woman in front of her, long auburn hair blown back by the escaping heat, didn’t turn to look at her, hadn’t this entire time. Still, the woman had reached her hand back, and Gertrude grasped it in her own with an alien desperation.

It took a dangerously long moment to click for her. The warmth that encompassed her hand, while unpleasant, was simply that. It never crescendoed into the blistering heat she had come to expect from the Desolation. She looked down, and the cotton of her cardigan sleeve was singed and smoking. Ah. She supposed it made sense that she, too, had been at least partially claimed by the Lightless Flame.

The fire burning through her mind suddenly seemed cooler, calmer, and before too long it had receded into a dull glow over the ashes of her guilt.

Ash, that was all it was now. She hadn’t felt this light in years.

Blood was blood. Just that. Nothing philosophical, no far-reaching metaphors. Blood was blood and she could clean it up. She straightened and turned to the woman, who finally looked back at her. Her expression, slight as it was, was fond.

“Ready to go?” the woman asked, quiet voice clear even through the roar of the flames.

Gertrude didn’t have to answer. Agnes already understood.

Framed by the raging fire behind them, the two of them walked, hand in hand, away and into the dark of the early morning. Neither looked back.


End file.
